There was nothing for a long moment, just nothing at all, except for that quarter-time heartbeat going on as slowly and steadily as ever.
Consciousness was less than pleasant.
Geralt felt emptied, aching, hollowed out to the core-- and that was just his head. He groaned and put a hand against the floor in order to rise, only to find upward movement too large a hurdle at the current moment and rolling onto his back instead. Broken rib, possibly two. His knuckles, back and knees stung. Trying to focus his eyes upward at the ruins of the chandelier and the ceiling beyond was unpleasant and he still felt out of breath, felt raw in a way that he couldn't quite place... until Jaskier's face swam into view. Jaskier.
"Fuck," Geralt breathed out, closing his eyes. Jaskier's face and the sound of the ocean brought enough back, the sensation of drowning, of fighting a losing battle against the incoming tide. When he searched for how he got here, what had happened he found nothingness interrupted by the pale shock of Jaskier's face, the smell of whiskey and flowers, the downward swing of the chandelier and the sound of the ocean. What had happened? A mage, that much was obvious. But was it over? Had Jaskier taken care of it? Grunting, Geralt reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the bard's devastated doublet to help him pull himself up. Why didn't he have a shirt on? Why the fuck was he in the ballroom? "Jaskier, what happened?"
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Consciousness was less than pleasant.
Geralt felt emptied, aching, hollowed out to the core-- and that was just his head. He groaned and put a hand against the floor in order to rise, only to find upward movement too large a hurdle at the current moment and rolling onto his back instead. Broken rib, possibly two. His knuckles, back and knees stung. Trying to focus his eyes upward at the ruins of the chandelier and the ceiling beyond was unpleasant and he still felt out of breath, felt raw in a way that he couldn't quite place... until Jaskier's face swam into view. Jaskier.
"Fuck," Geralt breathed out, closing his eyes. Jaskier's face and the sound of the ocean brought enough back, the sensation of drowning, of fighting a losing battle against the incoming tide. When he searched for how he got here, what had happened he found nothingness interrupted by the pale shock of Jaskier's face, the smell of whiskey and flowers, the downward swing of the chandelier and the sound of the ocean. What had happened? A mage, that much was obvious. But was it over? Had Jaskier taken care of it? Grunting, Geralt reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the bard's devastated doublet to help him pull himself up. Why didn't he have a shirt on? Why the fuck was he in the ballroom? "Jaskier, what happened?"